


twas nothing at all

by limerental



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, also tenderness, by the nature of it being a magic sex curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: There once was a succubus, ugly and crasswho cast a dark spell on one fine lad and lassBut Geralt of Rivia, who saw them enthralledtook a cock up his arse like twas nothing at all
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 54
Kudos: 1040
Collections: Bruss





	twas nothing at all

“Well, fuck,” grunts Geralt as the bard collapses into a dramatic swoon. The shrieking creature leaps over his fallen body and swipes at Yennefer half-sheltered behind an up-turned table.

A mistake for the creature, as the mage has spent the last few minutes huddled against the table muttering and building power for a surge of magic. A pulse strikes the beast dead center in the chest, and it rears back for a moment, holding still, then promptly explodes into monster soup. 

Geralt lets out a sigh and allows his sword to clatter to the ground. He's down on one knee beside Jaskier's fallen body in half a breath.

Spitting goo from her mouth, Yennefer clambers to her feet and makes her way towards them, drenched across her torso in black slime.

“Wonderful,” she says, flicking a wrist and watching big gouts of slime fly off. “Is he alright down there?”

“I don't think so,” says Geralt, bent to check his pulse. Alive. Quickening. The creature's claws have caught him across the shoulder and torn through his clothes, but the shallow scratches bleed sluggishly. Not the source of his affliction. His skin appears flushed, a light sheen of sweat across his forehead, and he pants in small breaths.

“What is it?” Yennefer asks as she kneels on Jaskier's other side. She wipes a hand carefully on one of the few clean parts of her skirts and swipes his hair back from his sweaty forehead. “He's on fire.”

Geralt sighs. Fuck. 

His eyes sweep their surroundings again, picking out the details one at a time. The low banked fire. The table piled with fruit and meat and a bottle of dark wine. Plush furs draped on high-backed chairs and across the stone floor. Not a typical creature's lair.

“It was a succubus,” he says. “I didn't recognize it. They usually look a great deal more attractive than that.”

“Pity the man drawn to fuck that thing.”

“It would have been Jaskier. But the creature's dead.”

“So it wears off, then?”

“No,” says Geralt. “If it was going to, it would have.” Jaskier groans, and his eyelids flutter. Soon, he will wake. And he will be hungry.

“A curse?” Yennefer asks, pulling her hand back as the bard begins to tremble.

“A reproductive strategy.”

“Oh.” 

“A child conceived under the thrall of a succubus will in turn be a succubus,” says Geralt, and Yennefer's eyes shift to the side.“I assume it won't stop until he-- you know.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“He dies.”

“Well,” says Yennefer, pushing drying strands of hair back from her face. Her eyes have lost their focus. “Fuck or die?”

“Yen,” Geralt says and reaches out an arm to steady her as her body lists sideways. “It scratched you, didn't it?”

“Barely,” she drawls, a drunken warmth seeping into her voice.

Great. Just excellent.

“Listen,” he grunts. An abrupt shake of the shoulder to keep her focused just a moment longer. Her head lolls. “I've got you. I won't let you do anything you'll regret.”

“Anyone, you mean,” she says with a lopsided smirk.

“Yeah,” says Geralt. How to keep two sex-drunk fools from trying to fulfill what the creature's thrall pushes them towards? And get them out alive. Strong enough to hold Jaskier down, maybe even hold the both of them if Yen's intoxication led her to forget her magic. But just holding would not be enough. The lust would burn them up to nothing, and they would perish here, one after the other.

Ah. So he knows what he has to do.

Yennefer is slumped sideways, quivering, as Jaskier begins to rouse, shoving himself up on his elbows with a groan. When his eyes open, the pupils are blown wide, unseeing.

“Jaskier,” says Geralt. “I need you to focus on me.”

“Hngghhh,” says Jaskier. “I want-- Hell, what do I want?”

“Listen to me. You're under the influence of a succubus. You're going to die if you don't-- you're not listening.” Geralt meets Jaskier's dazed staring with a grimace.

“Did you know you have the nicest skin?” he asks, head tilted. The flush in his cheeks has increased, and his chest rises and falls with struggling breaths. “Geralt, what's happening to me?”

“Succubus,” Geralt grunts. “You have to focus, Jaskier. I won't let you do anything you--”

Yennefer gasps back into consciousness and blinks for a hazy moment before narrowing in on the two men before her. The disorientation lasts only a second or so, before she's suddenly hitching up her skirts and clambering over the bard, clear in her intention.

“No, no,” grunts Geralt and hoists her back with an arm around the waist, but she manages to lean down as Jaskier surges to kiss her, lips meeting in what looks like a painful clash. The bard is suddenly all scrabbling hands, and Geralt allows a long-suffering sigh before making a concerted effort to pull the two apart, Yennefer held high up on his hip and Jaskier shoved back to the floor with a flat hand against his chest.

“Heyyyy,” whines Jaskier, and his hips cant up off the floor.

“Hold on,” says Geralt and looks between the two of them, Yennefer still covered in drying dark slime and struggling against his hold and Jaskier openly hip-thrusting into thin air. “Just give me a minute.”

It can't be helped. The only way out is through.

Keeping a secure hold on the struggling mage hooked under his arm, Geralt swings a leg to straddle Jaskier, who immediately takes advantage of this new source of friction with the frantic stutter of his hips. Yennefer has ceased her struggling and is now kissing along his jaw and the line of his neck. 

After several chance encounters over the years, the warm press of her mouth has begun to feel almost familiar. He breathes deep to catch her scent. _Warm._

“Your jawline is just amazing,” interrupts Jaskier, his hands trailing up under Geralt's untucked shirt, coming to rest on his hips. The moment of the discovery that he can now use this grip for further leverage for his thrusts shows clear on his flushed face.

“Right,” says Geralt. As Jaskier's thumbs dig into his hip bones, Yennefer's hands search lower. She palms him through the fabric of his pants, the warmth sinking through, and shifts her thighs apart to rub against his hip. With Jaskier rutting beneath him and Yennefer squirming against his side, he spares a moment for an indignant huff.

“Geralt,” gasps Jaskier beneath him. “I feel like I'm dying.”

“You are dying,” he grunts and leans to kiss him.

The initial frantic edge to the kiss is just as painful as it looked with Yennefer. Jaskier is all slobber and teeth until Geralt curls a big hand around his jaw to steady him, though it's still not particularly pleasant, Jaskier panting into his mouth with very little technique.

This has gone on no less than a few quick moments when suddenly the bard arches beneath him and stills with a faltering moan.

“Gnngkk,” he groans, all his usual clever words evading him. “Hnngg- _Geralt._ ”

“Hmm,” Geralt huffs and pulls back to look at Jaskier, who has collapsed beneath him.

Still flushed. Speeding heart rate. Eyes dark with lust that has not been sated. He is all rumpled clothes and disheveled hair, shoving himself up on his elbows to attempt to resume the kissing as though he hadn't just finished in his pants a scant instant ago.

“Not as easy as that then,” says Geralt. Some other end to the curse, then. Jaskier is straining to kiss at his collarbone, and Yennefer sighs dreamily, still rubbing herself against his body.

Well. 

If it's going to take longer than expected, they may as well be somewhere more comfortable.

In one fluid motion, Geralt hitches Yennefer farther on his hip and hoists Jaskier up as well. He stalks across the room and deposits the two of them on the plush furs before the fire, toeing out of his boots as he does so and proceeding to shuck off his armor and clothing in a heap.

In the the brief time it takes him to return to them, stripped bare, two shapes roll together on the rug, making fumbling attempts at pushing off their own clothing. Geralt grabs one in each arm and yanks them apart.

“Focus on me,” he grumbles. He kneels between them before the fire, the light flickering bronze across his exposed skin.

“Oh, I am focused,” says Jaskier, sidling up against Geralt's side as Yennefer curls behind him and resumes kissing along his throat. “You don't have to ask this man twice, no sir. I am very _very_ focused. I am--”

Frankly, given how gratifyingly it seems to work, Geralt could get used to shutting the bard up by drawing their mouths together.

* * *

Heat. Incessant heat beyond all measure and a muffled quality to the light and sound, the scene before her wavering as though threatening to go liquid at any moment, the blazing light trickling down the stone walls and across the body of the man that kneels before her.

Each thought that passes through her head is molten, shifting. With no hesitation, the images in her thoughts slide fluidly into reality. No inhibitions. Just endless heat and _oh_ , each touch could send her to her knees if she were not already there.

She feels herself trail a hand down the scarred back engulfed in firelight, the broad thighs with their fine dusting of hair, the smooth dip of the spine. _Geralt_ , she thinks. Yes. The silver hair tickling between shoulderblades. The tensed arms bunched with coiled muscles. Every place her fingertips touch feels white-hot.

Her other hand, she realizes, is moving slick between her own legs. Her skirts hitched up and sleeves of the dress sliding off her shoulders to reveal her breasts. Funny, to realize that only distantly, as if watching from the far corner of the room.

Yennefer takes a deep, steadying breath.

 _Succubus. Magic._ Something about staying alive.

“Focus on me,” she hears Geralt say, and how could she not? He is a curve of shifting sinew held in offering before her. The potential energy trembles through the bank of taut muscles along his flank. He could kill the both of them in one simultaneous gesture, one human neck wrung in each fist, but instead he presents himself bare before them. 

As he turns his head to look over his shoulder at her, she thinks she would very much like to kiss along the taut line of the tendons in his throat and suddenly is doing so, even as he turns back to kiss the bard.

Oh. And that's a sight she didn't think she would find beauty in. 

Jaskier has a feminine appeal to him she hasn't noticed before. The dark line of his eyelashes and tousled hair. Very nice skin. Kissing Geralt, he is wanton and flushed, and his hands fumble around to brush her bared thighs. She entangles their fingers briefly and a sharp spark of something bleeds low into her stomach, drawing Jaskier's hand in between her open legs. 

His hands are not as soft as the rest of him looks, calloused from the strings of his instruments and strong and sure and curling to slick through her wetness in the deft way of a man who is no stranger to a woman's pleasure. If she were not so soaked in fire, she would think _ah, the filthy rumors are no exaggeration_ , the thought registering only as a distant echo as she shifts her weight down into the bard's hand, seeking, _seeking_.

Jaskier groans into Geralt's mouth, a noise that ends in a breathy squeak as Yennefer stretches a hand around Geralt to exchange a similar touch, thumbing the head of his cock where it peeks from the loosened front of his trousers. He too is wet and swollen, shivering bodily as she touches him, only the steady plane of the Witcher between them staving off the frenzied joining of their bodies.

There are no proper words for the feeling she brims with. _Desire_ does not encompass it. _Want_ falls short. _Hunger_ aches but the feeling eclipses any she has known. She will liquefy beneath its thrall, she will burst into an array of explosive violence, shivered down to molecules, transfigured and transported.

Jaskier's fingers twist, and she is inflamed and tipped over a precipice, bliss rippling through her from belly to chest. 

“Agh,” gasps the bard and spend pulses hot across the hollows of her knuckles. But he does not soften. Her need does not ebb. 

_Heat, heat, heat._ She is splintering. She is unmade. 

_I'm truly dying,_ she thinks, and though she probes at the fractured images racing through her head, she cannot force them to coalesce into something that will save her. She is a formless thing shifting in the miring darkness. She is nothing but a heartbeat raised in crescendo.

“It's alright,” rumbles a voice nearby, and her mind struggles to sharpen out of its haze, remembering Geralt. _How could she forget?_ There is a wet, snuffling noise as well, like something drowning. She forces open heavy-lidded eyes to allow light to blur in, does not remember having closed them. 

Jaskier is weeping, breath hitching on the gurgled sobs, and Geralt has both massive hands cradling his face, scarred thumbs sweeping under the fragile line of his lashes. Yennefer has never seen him do anything so tender, so delicate, and finds she could weep with it herself. 

“It h-hurts,” gasps the bard, whimpering, and Geralt rests their foreheads together with a huff. “I'm going to die. _I'm going to die._ ” A terrified whine rising in the pitch of his voice. Yennefer feels the same swell of hysteria with a surety that sharpens every frayed nerve ending. She gasps out a ragged, sobbing breath into the swell of Geralt's shoulder and makes her peace with it, with the impending conflagration of the very blood in her veins.

_If I'm to die, it will at least be brilliant. It will be an inferno too bright and beautiful to look at._

She gazes at the two of them bowed close with their heads together, Geralt's jaw tight and gold eyes lowered, Jaskier's tears streaked down the flush of his cheeks between the Witcher's cradling fingers. She cannot look away. 

A vision materializes, and she can do nothing but helplessly pursue it, her tongue suddenly loosened.

“Witcher,” she whispers against the chilled skin of his back. “Why not take him?” She presses her mouth along the knobs of his spine. “Why not indulge here while you can? When none would blame you.” His shoulder blade twitches, and she drags her blunt teeth along it. “I've seen him looking. He is willing. He would welcome it.”

“Fuck,” says Jaskier and lets out a gust of breath that ruffles Yennefer's hair.

“I've seen _you_ looking,” she says, and her awareness seems to sharpen on Geralt's nakedness. _Focus_ , she thinks as she trails touches up both broad thighs, digging into the sharp dip of tendon where hip meets abdomen, finding his cock hard and curved up against his stomach. _Focus._ Beyond the returning haze of lust, there is something she wants. 

Her spindly fingers brush the velvet skin of his erection and then stretch the scant gap between him and Jaskier. She beckons the bard closer with a tug on the front of his trousers until he and Geralt are nearly flush together at the pelvis and then slips her hand into a fist around the both of them. 

Jaskier's mouth falls open, and his cock jerks up along Geralt's length, drawing a deep and involuntary noise from Geralt that she can feel vibrate through his body.

“Take from him, Geralt,” she says. “Take what he offers. He would offer it freely, curse or no. You must know this to be true. Take it.”

“Yen,” Geralt grunts. _“No.”_ His cock twitches in her hand where Jaskier's slides along it, and she can feel in the muscles pressed back against her chest the great, trembling effort it takes to remain still in her grip. “I would-- I would not see him hurt.” _I would not survive hurting him,_ is the truth she hears behind the words. 

To offer his own body to them is just the same as fighting back monsters. To take from them now would be to confirm that he is one.

“Well then,” she says, and her breath skims the shell of his ear. “Allow yourself to be taken.”

Geralt shudders, and his hips jerks up into Yennefer's tightening hand. Jaskier's pace stalls, and he comes to completion a third time, a scant piddle of spend trickling down the head of Geralt's reddened cock.

“I can't,” he gasps. “ _I c-can't._ I--”

Yennefer shushes him with a gentle brush of her fingers against his quivering belly. Geralt releases the cradling hold on his face, and the bard's head thumps forward against his shoulder, hair slicked to his forehead with a sheen of sweat. She places a kiss to the crown of his head and then one in the soft spot just behind Geralt's ear, where the silver hair has been swept back.

“You would like us to have you, Witcher,” she says into the crook of his neck. “To have all of you.” An almost imperceptible shiver. Her breath tickling through his hair. “You're so loathe to let anyone in, but you want it, yes? To be known. To be broken open and seen.”

Her hands cup his hip bones, and with insistent pressure, she beckons him to turn in their arms. He goes with a stiff reluctance clear in his posture but does not resist. 

Face to face, she is helpless to do anything but bring her lips up to meet his, catching on the edge of his mouth.

 _Oh, Geralt,_ she thinks, _let me give you this,_ and it is the last clear thought she has before she is again lost in a blur.

* * *

Jaskier is dying.

No, no, correction. Jaskier is _dead._ He has _died,_ and this is some tier of the afterlife that the poets forgot to write about.

He cannot keep a single thought in his head except a rising swell of need, more and more by the second, an unholy tidal rush of _want want want._ As for what he wants, his body is quite clear on that. Not as clear on how to go about obtaining it.

He is leaning forward, face smashed against a warm surface, and a woman is speaking over the buzz of white noise in his head. Speaking to him? Saying what? He blinks and sucks in a breath, realizes a line of spit has slid from his mouth down along the wall before him, and _no,_ it's no wall but the solid plane of a back and peering down, he sees his glistening erection drag in shallow thrusts through the peach fuzz along the swell of a truly unequivocally monstrously gorgeous ass.

A familiar growl rumbles through the back before him and into his own body, and his speeding heart clenches.

Geralt. Oh right, it's Geralt's back and Yennefer speaking and his cock thrusting wildly against Geralt's--

He squeaks as Yennefer's hands sneak around the thick waist before him, one pressing flat to trap his erection in a warm cocoon of too much friction against the small of the warm back and the other dropping lower to grasp at the supple flesh of his-- of Geralt's--

“Fuck,” gasps Jaskier, because he wants to come again, he needs to come again and he's not sure-- well, what's left? Just rubbing himself raw on anything he can find with nothing left but dry, quaking orgasms until his heart gives out on him at last? Oh what an absolutely decadent tavern song that would make. Oh, that would live in infamy, that one.

 _But I am going to die,_ he thinks and tightens his hold on Geralt's hips, sweltering face pressed to the line of his back and--

“--let Jaskier in, haven't you?” he hears Yennefer say close by, almost a whisper and low into Geralt's ear. He only hears because they are so close, _so close._ He is so close. “Let him weasel his way into your life. You could have put an end to it before it even began. You could have turned him away.” 

She's talking about him. Him and Geralt. With a great, concerted effort, he lifts his head and finds that Yennefer's lilac eyes meet his over the rise of Geralt's shoulder. The Witcher holds still, breath coming slow and steady, and his face is turned into Yennefer's hair, no sign that any of this is affecting him except for the occasional twitch of the muscles in his back.

“But oh Witcher,” Yennefer is saying. Her sharp gaze does not leave Jaskier's. “You want him to break you down, don't you? You want him to see.” He swallows hard. The Witcher shifts to look back at him, just a long look from the corner of his golden eyes, and _there's something there._ There's something there. What it is, Jaskier's too delirious to comprehend, but it sends a fresh dart of arousal down the base of his spine. 

“Let him see you,” she says and her hands are slick suddenly, the hand that slips between the cleft of Geralt's ass and the hand that holds him thrusting weakly against it. _Magic?_ But of course, Yennefer is experienced in sex magic and can call upon it even under this terrible thrall. Typical.

“Let us see.”

And what Jaskier sees is this, as though watching from somewhere hovering on the ceiling:

The three of them kneeling before a fire burned down to glowing coals. The heavy shadows stretching across their joined bodies, just one shifting silhouette. An arm flung here, a hand moving there. No way to pinpoint where one ends and the other begins.

Geralt holds Yennefer against him, arm slung low across her narrow waist, his breath going ragged as her fingers slip wetly inside of him, crooked to stretch. His first sign of slipping composure. 

The small, growling gasps are almost too much for Jaskier to bear. _Too much, too much._ He could crawl up out of his own skin and the need still may not ease. Time spills out of his comprehension. He finds himself finishing again, nearly dry and rutting against the dip of Geralt's spine, but it does not matter. Nothing matters but what he sees through the blur of his lowered lashes.

Her fingers are so slender, careful. She presses one in and out to the second knuckle and farther, and then two, curling. How delicately she handles this task, even no doubt consumed with her own lust. She could not hurt him, not really, and yet, Jaskier knows she so easily could. _He's fragile,_ he thinks. This great pillar of a man could break in half from one wrong word from this woman. For now, she is careful.

“You play your role so well in life,” she is saying into his shoulder. “You were made for one purpose, and you hold true to that. It's all you're good for. It's what the world requires of you.”

Geralt hmpphs, muffled in her hair, but cannot stop a deep shudder through his body. Jaskier sees him clench around the fingers twisting inside him and groans.

“So good, Geralt,” he whispers. “Being so good for us.”

“You can be so much more than just that,” she says. “You are not made of stone.” Three fingers now, pressing rhythmically. The Witcher trembles. “You need not hold yourself like a statue. You need not deny yourself.”

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier gasps as Yennefer grips him in her other hand, shifting him downward into a position where he could-- oh fuck.

“Give yourself over to it,” she whispers. Her fingers slip free. She guides the head of Jaskier's cock to nudge there and holds him steady. “Allow yourself to need.” Despite the stretching, the ring of muscles is tight, will not give, could not possibly allow him entrance. _And yet._ “To want.” Oh, Jaskier wants. He wants and Geralt is offering, is not pulling away, has not yet wrung his neck for daring to-- oh, to press inside. “To be desired.”

Jaskier has never desired anything more. Or at least, he thinks not. His brain is a bit fuzzy on the details what with the current state of affairs he finds himself in. The current state of affairs involves small rolls of his hips that allow him to sink slowly to the base within the body before him. The body that belongs to one Geralt of Rivia, who is not only allowing the intrusion, but spreads his legs wider to accommodate him, breath coming in restrained pants.

“We'll take care of you,” says Yennefer as Jaskier begins to move. “We've got you.” He reaches a hand to drag through silver hair and pulls it back in his fist, working up into him with shallow thrusts that grow more insistent as all control begins to slip away. He tries to focus, tries to stay present, wants to hang onto this moment a little longer, knowing it may well be one of his last. 

_What a way to go out,_ he thinks as a darkness creeps in at the edge of his vision.

* * *

Geralt gives in.

He is held fast in their arms, a grip he could shake with no effort at all if he so wanted, but the thought of shaking either of them free ( _in this moment or in any moment_ ) aches like a physical wound. 

And yet, some dark voice whispers _it's only the thrall._ He is clear-headed, but they are bound by a curse that draws them to him, fumbling blindly like moths to firelight. _He_ is the curse, the foul thing that drew them to this in the first place. At any moment, the rapture will fade, and they will feel ashamed to have known him in this way. To have been taken from in this way.

He should remain stoic between them. He should do only what is required to stave off the fever that would drive them to madness and then death. He should not allow the witch's words to slip into him like soothing water down the throat of a man desperately parched with thirst. He should not shiver as the bard places small, reverent kisses to the slope of his shoulders.

But he does not have quite the resolve that he professes to, and so, Geralt gives.

Some part of it is easy, with Jaskier's hand caught in his hair, exposing his neck to Yennefer's suckling mouth, with Jaskier's slender chest flexing behind him in time with each quick, sharp movement of deep thrusts into him, with Yennefer's soft breasts pressed against him, a hand running up through the thatch of hair at the base of his erection.

It's easy enough to let out one faltering breath and lean into their touch, forward and back. He gives to Jaskier's hand in his hair, head tipping until their ears brush together, and he gives to Yennefer's hand teasing between his legs with soft trailing touches and then a firm grip, a twist of the wrist, and then light again, feather-soft. 

Yennefer makes a small cooing noise when she feels the subtle relaxation of muscles and tightens her fingers into a ring around him, coaxing him to seek that pressure. With some of the roiling tension eased in his body, it is hardly a choice, each snap of Jaskier's hips pushing him forward into her hold, and it is so easy to allow it, to give, _to give._

“That's it, dear Witcher,” Yennefer mumbles against his stomach, suddenly on her crouched low before him, the tickle of her breath against his flushed skin the only warning he has before she takes him into her mouth.

 _“Geralt,”_ whispers Jaskier as he pulls at his hair until their heads shift to fit their mouths together. “So good,” he says against his lips. 

The kiss is slow, tender, seeking, at odds with the unforgiving pace of his thrusts. Geralt can feel each shift within him, deepening the heaviness that sinks in his belly, radiating up through the muscles in his back and tingling along his scalp where the bard's fingernails catch. Jaskier could break him, could crack his ribs to crawl inside, and Geralt would allow it, has already allowed it, can do nothing but huff into the warm press of his mouth and allow the kiss to deepen.

And Yennefer, her tongue flattening along the head of his cock, her lips slipping down and tightening, a thumb tracing the veined underside while she grips what won't fit into her mouth. Which seems to be very little, as she dips low until her nose brushes his stomach. She swallows around him as though she means to engulf and devour him, and he would let her, he would let her. She would not have to ask.

The blue-grey darkness of the room is touched suddenly by a brush of glowing light that seeps in from along the bank of cracked windows along the far wall.

 _Dawn,_ Geralt registers, and suddenly, there is stillness.

Jaskier slumps behind him, slipping soft from within his body, and Yennefer shifts back on her haunches, grip lightening at once. The emptiness and loss seizes up in Geralt's chest, overwhelming. He breathes in stilted gusts, lungs refusing to draw air. They are safe, _they are safe,_ the curse lifted, but it's him, in the end, who is unlikely to survive this. They will turn away from him one after the other, and he will die here. 

A long, still moment passes. Geralt closes his eyes, hoping at least to not see them slink away and be gone from him. Knowing he will continue to kneel here while they do so, will not lift a hand to stop them, will perhaps remain here through the everlasting ages until he turns to stone, will finally meet his end held unmoving as they draw ever farther away. 

The moment stretches with the dawn and then, suddenly, breaks.

The rays of light shoot through the silver halo of his hair, as Jaskier presses a weak and shaky kiss to the line of his neck, as Yennefer's sure fingers tighten again around him.

The rush of air from his lungs is half sob. Jaskier shushes him and reaches a hand around to tangle with Yennefer's, stroking. Yennefer presses a hot kiss to the purpled head of his cock, where their hands cannot fully enclose him.

Groaning, he spills onto her lips and their joined hands, a near-painful, sinuous pleasure seizing up through his spread thighs and the muscles in his pelvis. He is blind and deaf with it, pierced through with light, and he would surely collapse and drown in it to never emerge, if not for Yennefer pressing up to kiss him with her spend still wetting her mouth, if not for Jaskier's arms winding around his chest and small kisses ghosting along his bunched shoulder.

Only when they urge him down onto the furs alongside them, do his muscles fully loosen, their soft, grounding touches soothing him into sleep.

* * *

It is nearing afternoon by the time any of the three makes an attempt to rouse from the floor. Upon his first waking, Geralt suffers a brief, terrible fear that they will be gone from him, immediately quieted when he registers the bare limbs slung across him.

Dozing, the bard and mage bracket him in curled reflections of one another, Geralt flat on his back between them. Jaskier with mussed hair, drooling from a slack jaw, one arm bent beneath him, the other across Geralt's chest, high along his collarbones with fingers curled into his hair. Yennefer with face nestled down into his bicep, both hands folded close together against her breasts, one leg hitched over his belly.

It is surely only the increasing brightness of the well-risen sun that swells the bloom of warmth in his chest.

When he wakes again, Yennefer is watching him, turned on her belly, chin pillowed on the rise of her arms.

“Hi,” she says, warm voice pitched low so as not to wake Jaskier.

“Hello,” says Geralt. He bends an arm up to trail the tips of his fingers along the swell of her shoulder.

“Well, that was something,” she says.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Tired. A bit sore. Decidedly no longer cursed.”

“That's good,” he says.

“How about you?” Her words are nothing but a murmur against his bent arm. “You didn't have to do what you did for us.”

“It was no trouble. As long as I kept you two apart,” he says, carefully avoiding a discussion of what it all meant. Some other time. Perhaps when it all felt less raw and dangerous or perhaps when Jaskier awoke. “Didn't want any bastards conceived on my watch. Succubus or not.”

“Geralt,” says Yennefer carefully. “They took my womb the night of my ascension. I thought you knew. You needn't have worried about bastards.”

“Huh,” says Geralt. “I'd appreciate you keeping that fact from the bard.” 

He lies staring at the ceiling as Yennefer rests, distinctly feeling the soreness of his body in places his body hasn't felt sore in a long time. In the expected places, yes, and also deep in his chest, where a Witcher's heart was meant to lie black and dormant.

* * *

A fortnight later in the drafty upper room of one local tavern or another, the bard plucks gamely at the strings of his lute, sitting upon a stool before the crackling fire in the hearth, wearing nothing but an unlaced, oversized tunic. His companions sprawl in bed, loose-limbed on the edge of sleep, but a thrill of inspiration has struck him and he plucks the lilting tune first and then layers on the lyrics, more spoken than sung, a shadow of how they will sound belted across a crowded mead hall.

_“There once was a succubus, ugly and crass  
who cast a dark spell on one fine lad and lass  
But Geralt of Rivia, who saw them enthralled  
took a cock up his arse like twas nothing at--”_

The lute is wrenched from the bard's hands with a growl.

“That's enough of that,” says Geralt and sets the lute out of his reach, beckoning him back into bed as Yennefer douses the fire with a whispered word. The room sinks into darkness, silence.

In the crook of an arm, a humming starts up.

* * *

And if a certain bawdy tavern song gains a surge of blossoming popularity in the following months, well, an artist with such wealth of inspiration surely can't bear any blame.

* * *

_There once was a succubus, ugly and crass  
who cast a dark spell on one fine lad and lass  
But Geralt of Rivia, who saw them enthralled  
took a cock up his arse like twas nothing at all_

_Twas nothing, twas nothing, twas nothing at all  
A cock up his arse like twas nothing at all _

_First kindly allow me to set this grim stage  
as a great white wolf, young bard, and a mage  
Fought tooth, blade, and nail with the grisly cunt  
Whose swift bloody death did not end her hunt_

_Did not end, did not end, did not end her hunt  
Whose swift bloody death did not end her hunt_

_Bright fire rose high with a blaze of lust  
Both surely would die as they moaned and thrust  
Good Witcher has never yet shrunk from a fight  
So readied himself for a long, strenuous night_

_A strenuous, a strenuous, a long strenuous night  
So readied himself for a long strenuous night_

_No touch, no stroke could sate their great need  
to fulfill their hunger took great skill indeed  
But Geralt of Rivia, who's fought dusk til dawn  
Kneeled down before them with naught at all on_

_With naught all, with naught all, with naught at all on  
Kneeled down before them with naught at all on_

_The lady mage whispered into the bard's ear  
Together they hastened to draw the Wolf near  
So stoic, so gallant, good Witcher stood tall  
with a cock up his arse like twas nothing at all_

_Twas nothing, twas nothing, twas nothing at all  
A cock up his arse like twas nothing at all_


End file.
